


There'll Be Days Like This

by buckysbears (DrZebra)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Discussions of Suicidal Tendencies, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Serious Talks, Service Dogs, Set post 3x08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:40:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrZebra/pseuds/buckysbears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May takes things hard, and she takes it out on herself. Jemma is a well-meaning and very concerned hypocrite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There'll Be Days Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the [Dogs of S.H.I.E.L.D.](http://buckysbears.tumblr.com/dogsofshield) universe, but knowledge of it isn’t strictly necessary for this fic. Just know that Jemma’s service dog is named Mirzam, and May has a dog for her PTSD.

May sighs as she relaxes against the back of the couch, ribs aching and muscles protesting as they fully unclench for the first time in days. The gash on her leg has finally stopped bleeding after Bobbi wrapped it taught with gauze, and she still has a while before dinner. She’ll go in after everyone else is finished and pick through the leftovers and then go to bed, try to get a good night’s sleep before heading back out in the morning.

The quiet click of claws draws her attention, and May barely stifles a groan as Mirzam rounds the corner. She’d picked a dusty rec room on the other side of base to settle down in on the hope that no one would think to look for her there, that they’d all assume she was still gone (besides Bobbi, who knows not to tell, even if she doesn’t like it). She’s exhausted and her patience feels paper thin, and can’t help but wonder why the dog has chosen her now when she hasn’t been called on for weeks—but if Jemma needs her she can at least check in. And then send someone else, someone who can be more help to her right now.

May is halfway to standing, pushing herself up by the armrest, when Jemma walks into the room as well. She looks fine, eyes clear and cheeks dry, dressed in jeans and a clean blouse, so May lets herself sink back into her seat. Jemma scans the room, and then her, obviously taking note of every bloodstain and scratch that is visible to her, concentrated hard as if it’ll let her see the ones that aren’t.

“So you’re back,” Jemma announces to her, stopped in the middle of the room. 

May raises an eyebrow in response, because she isn’t in any sort of mood for small talk, and Jemma nods resolutely.

“I told Miri you wouldn’t be. That, surely, if you’ve been gone for a week and a half, you’d have at least checked in before wandering off by yourself again.” The words hang in the air, though Jemma doesn’t seem to expect an answer. “But, you’re back. Have you been checked over?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good.” Jemma folds herself onto the couch next to May, who tries to stifle her irritation at the action. She knows it’s misplaced, but everything has her jumpy and she just wanted a few hours of quiet. Jemma sets her hands on her knees, absentmindedly pulling on her thumb. “And here I was, telling myself it was silly to think you’re avoiding us.”

May holds in a sigh. She was avoiding them, but of course not for any of the reasons Jemma was probably thinking. The kids were always taking things like that personally, seeing it as a reflection on something they did rather than her own character, her own faults. “I just didn’t feel like talking.”

Jemma snorts, seeing the obvious cop-out. “No, of course not. But maybe you feel like listening.”

“Simmons,” May warns, voice low.

“I’m serious, May,” she bites back.

May wants to leave, find somewhere else to hole up for the next however many hours until she can get back out in the field, make sure it’s a place no one can find her. She doesn’t feel built for this anymore. But Jemma sought her out for a reason, and maybe she’ll leave with enough peace of mind to make everyone back off if she gets whatever it is off her chest. She clenches her jaw, breathes out her nose.

“Fine. I’m listening.”

Jemma crosses her arms tightly, shoulders squared and angled towards May, but she won’t look at her, gaze following Miri as she sniffs, nose hovering over dried blood and bruises in various stages of healing. “You’re letting yourself get ripped apart out there. I can’t believe Coulson is approving you for more missions. Although whether these are all sanctioned and whether he even knows what state you’re in should be called into question at this point, I think.”

May bites the inside of her cheek. None of it is any of the girl’s business, but telling her that feels wrong. She’s still filled with the urge to snap at her, scare her away so she can have some peace, but that doesn’t sit right. So she bites her cheek and breathes in and out, tries to calm down.

“Since everything that happened with Dr. Garner you’ve been acting recklessly and pushing everyone away. Daisy’s barely seen you, Fitz said you snapped at him when he offered you tea, Bobbi won’t even talk to me about what’s going on with you. Director Coulson keeps saying you need space, but this doesn’t feel like it’s just space, May, it feels like you’re running. I don’t know to what, but from this side it looks an awful lot like punishment.”

Jemma shifts, sitting up straighter and then slouching again, tightening and loosening her arms from their hug around her own ribs. From the corner of her eye, May can see she looks expectant, waiting for some sort of rebuke or rebuttal. Miri rests her chin on May’s knee, and she reaches over to scratch her cheek, letting Jemma’s words just flow over her. Not getting trapped by the anger, though it’s so much easier to hold on to.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Jemma goads, sounding too gloomy for it to work properly, “but I can’t see taking all of this out on yourself being productive in any way. When you’re hurt you’re less effective on missions, and you haven’t brought other agents along in the field to make up for it. And you won’t let anyone help you because, what? You’re angry? You feel guilty? I don’t see how any of this is going to absolve that.” May hears her swallow, blow out a frustrated breath. “I’ve learned a little bit about mourning these last few years. And I can’t say I do it well, but, _May_. This isn’t how to do it. This isn’t helping you or anyone else, and you need to stop. You have to stop this.”

“I’m still your SO.” She reminds her, almost a growl, and quickly regrets it. Both for losing the grasp she thought she had on her temper, and because it’s mostly a technicality at this point. Morse took over the responsibilities of being Jemma’s SO a long time ago.

“You are,” Jemma agrees desperately, as if that’s proven her point. “And that means you’re supposed to be here for us. You’re supposed to take care of us.” She’s gazing at the side of May’s face, waiting for something. For May to realize she’s dropped the ball, maybe, like she doesn’t know already. Like she’s not trying to atone for that too.

“Miri is a good dog, she’ll take care of you.” May strokes her finger gently around Miri’s ear, just feeling the very edges of it, velvety and slightly cold. It’s the least aggressive answer she can think of, but also the most true. The dog is probably the only one on this base who hadn’t let Jemma down at one point or another.

Jemma slumps, arms falling slack around her stomach. May hopes she’s given up, that she’s said her piece and is done trying, at least for the moment, to save May from the path she’s chosen. That she’s done trying to meddle in things she doesn’t understand (that she can’t understand, that May would fight to the ends of the Earth to make sure she never understands). But then Jemma stills, gaze focused in on May smoothing over Miri’s fur.

“He misses you, you know.”

May stops, pulling her hand back. There’s something hard in her voice, just short of accusatory.

“Fitz and Mack have been taking care of him mainly, and they’re doing a good job but he’s not the same. He needs you.”

The _we all need you_ goes unsaid, but it’s still too loud, hovering in the air between them. May wants to say something mean, something spiteful, let the acidity that’s been burning her throat for weeks out into the air, but that wouldn’t be fair to Jemma. Just because she’s been the only one brave enough to call her out doesn’t mean she deserves to feel even an ounce of the hurt that’s being kept inside her. She stays quiet, doesn’t look as the girl next to her shifts to face her, leaning her head against the back of the couch.

“You need him too. That’s why he’s here. He’s supposed to help you with this kind of thing-“

“Stop,” May finally bites out. She’s shaky from worn-off adrenaline, in more pain than she’d admit, and in desperate need of a shower. She’s agreed to listen, but her tolerance and armor are worn thin. When she glances toward Jemma to check if her tone had been too harsh, she’s surprised to see anger shining in her eyes. She’s always held a lot of anger, but so rarely lets it shine through, much less anywhere May can see it. Jemma breaths out sharply through her nose, let’s both of them smolder for a moment.

“I was informed of some of the … missions Fitz took while I was away,” she begins, voice brittle but eyes locked on May’s face. May is concerned by and relieved for the change of topic, and lets neither show. “I decided to research the full extent of them for myself. Doesn’t take a sharp eye to see how reckless they were. But that’s to be expected, right? The monolith was a dangerous object, dangerous missions go along with that. Except, what caught my attention were actually the ones he didn’t take.” She pauses, licking her bottom lip. “There’s a pattern to them, see? Some of those missions were dangerous, life threatening, but not all of them. Some were just intel gathering, searching archives, going through dig sites. There’s plenty of plain old lab work, too. All things we know. Things we excel at, nothing at all like being in the field, engaging hostiles.” None of this is news to May, but she lets her talk.

“So at first Fitz takes everything he can find, chases down every lead, follows up on every option himself. But he can’t keep it up forever, and Coulson is pulling his backup, so he has to start picking and choosing. Not what to investigate, but what he can do personally. The rest he assigns to lower level agents, calls up old contacts, cashes in favors. So you think he’d stick to what we’re good at. That he’d send every resource out to gather his information and he’d do what he does best, in the lab, figuring it all out, and finding a solution.

“And for a while that’s exactly what he does. Until the first big failure, and then the second, and then he takes on a dangerous mission. And the third failure, another mission, and other work starts getting pushed to other people.” Jemma swallows against a lump in her throat, tears beginning to pool openly in her eyes, and May feels it like a punch, despite it all, and looks away. She knows where this is going. “The more failures, the more time he spends in hostile territory, passing up opportunities to work on information gathering or stay in the lab, until the percentages are completely skewed towards the former. The numbers are amazingly predictable, actually, I could make a flow chart if I were so inclined. But it makes sense. The less hope he had at finding a solution, the more reckless Fitz’s behavior. What’s to lose? He’d figure it out or die trying.”

May’s eyes snap up at the almost casual way it’s said, but there are tears flowing down Jemma’s cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, making a wet spot on the couch cushion. She’s looking at May with such earnest heartbreak that May wants to pull her closer, stop the rest of the story like it’ll stop the girl from having to live it. But she just watches, breath catching around the sharp ache in her ribs, the embers in her chest dulling out one by one and leaving room for more painful things.

“We had a lengthy chat about this,” Jemma informs her, almost a whisper before gaining strength. “It took him a while, but he admitted it. I wasn’t surprised. The pattern was there.” Her brows furrow, tracing the outline of May’s face with her gaze before settling on her eyes. “I am very, very good at seeing patterns, Agent May.”

Usually she’s quiet because she doesn’t feel the need to speak, but now it takes May a moment to find her voice, lost somewhere in the haze of Jemma’s tears and the rhythmic clenching of her fists, fingers rubbing together in the way that means she’s trying to sooth herself. May sighs quietly through her nose. “I’m not suicidal, Jemma.”

“No,” Jemma agrees, and it takes May aback momentarily. Jemma’s face screws up as she fights against something, swallowing harshly. She blinks quickly and a few more tears push down her face, breath coming in on a small gasp. “But would you care if you were? Would you even do anything about it?”

May doesn’t say anything, because a long time ago she thought she knew the answer. And not so long ago, she thought she knew it again. She thinks she knows now, wants to know, but she doesn’t, so she stays silent. Jemma will understand anyway.

The girl in question nods, face crumpled and pushing against the couch cushion, trembling slightly. “I lost everyone, when I was trapped on that … that bloody planet. And I just got you all back. I _just_ got you-“ She chokes slightly on her words, pushing air shakily out of her lungs. “I can’t lose you again, May. I don’t know that I can-“

A sob cuts her off, and she clamps a hand over her mouth. Her knees draw up to her chest and she drops her head from the couch, curling up into herself, shoulders shaking. Her hand is muffling her, but between every sob can be heard the quiet, half-formed mantra of “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do’”.

May touches her wrist gently, and she freezes, eyes squeezed shut like she’s waiting for a rebuke, doesn’t move as May slowly pulls Jemma against her chest.

It doesn’t feel natural, but May had gotten better at it, the physical contact. Better at not flinching away, at relaxing into an embrace, before all of this happened. She wasn’t often the one initiating it, and she wonders if it’s for that reason or the broader circumstances for why it feels so stale. Jemma is still clenched up, forehead resting against May’s collarbone, one hand over her mouth and the other in a fist at her side, so May starts rubbing over her back in firm, broad strokes, hoping that this was the right thing to do.

Slowly Jemma’s muscles relax, and she lets go of a loud sob, and then a dozen more, hand moving from her side to bunch up in the front of May’s shirt instead. Her other hand stays put, but she leans more of her weight into May, as if testing that she’ll hold her up. And she does, leans her cheek against Jemma’s hair even as bony knees push against her ribs, as she feels the damp seep through her shirt. Keeps rubbing up and down over Jemma’s spine, feeling every jitter and jump under her palm.

“I’m sorry,” May says for a thousand things, and means every one of them.

“You don’t need to be,” Jemma mutters, finally dropping her other hand to circle around May’s back, pulling her closer. Her voice is a high whine, caught frantically in the top of her throat. “People can only hold so much sorry and you don’t need to hold any for me.”

May pushes past a sigh. “I don’t know what else to do,” she admits, words soft even though they feel heavy in her chest. She isn’t sure she’s capable of being fueled by anything besides guilt and rage, not anymore.

The laugh that spills out of Jemma is wet, still half a sob, desperate to be anything but. “Yeah.” She sniffles, head pushing down on May’s shoulder, legs dropping so she’s more in her lap than just shoved against her. She’s not even pretending to want to give her space anymore, and May finds she doesn’t mind as much as she thought she would.

“Maybe just,” her fingers clutch May’s shirt in little spasms even as she tries to smooth them out, warm on her ribs and back. “Maybe just come home?”

_Home._ “I’m not sure I can.”

“Try,” Jemma breathes, somewhere between a plea and a command.

“Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more of the Dogs of S.H.I.E.L.D. universe, or to send in a prompt, drop by my [tumblr](http://buckysbears.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
